Today will be the first day in over a year that I won’t take a little white pill from the prescription bottle on my dresser.

I’m halfway through the process of transitioning off my psychiatric mediation, and I think this milestone has prompted me to reflect quite a bit on what the last year has held, in the midst of valleys and mountains, triumphs and challenges, and strength in the face of overwhelming adversity.

Thankfully, the process of weaning off my medication has been quite chill. I remember the waves of anxiety and fear I felt about going on meds in the first place – so nervous about potential side-effects, whether this would actually help at all, mixed in with uncertainty about what life was going to look like as I packed up a few belongings and drove home for my medical leave.

Antidepressants are weird. I’ve heard the horror stories about outrageous side effects, some even as shocking (and rare) as prompting suicidal ideation. I was scared of them making me feel like a zombie, losing all ability to feel and enjoy things around me. I was nervous about being reliant on them, needing them to balance my emotions for the rest of my life. And I was just sad that taking meds meant I wouldn’t be able to drink (obviously not the biggest issue, but when you’re a craft beer lover like myself, this can be a huge bummer).

Surprisingly, my experience taking medication has taught me a lot more than I anticipated.

First and foremost, I found out a lot of people have taken meds to help them cope with and treat their mental illness. Some close family, many friends, and others would share that they too have been there. It was strangely comforting, knowing that I wasn’t isolated in this weird medical bubble of people popping pills – no, many others have used medication at some point in their lives to manage a variety of things.

I learned that I needed to take medication for where I was and what I was going through. Meds are obviously not for everyone, and I resisted for so long. But after finally accepting where I was and what needed to happen, I had to let go and trust the process. It took about 4 weeks for me to see any improvement, but when it started, my God…it felt like the sky opened. I hadn’t felt happy or stable is so long, that the feeling was unfamiliar and unusual. I had been depressed for so long that the first time I actually felt happy almost brought me to tears. Those four weeks felt like a year, it felt like everyday I was analyzing myself to see if anything changed - and then suddenly, it did.

I learned that recovering from mental illness sometimes prompts you to revisit your life and your beliefs. It feels great to feel like myself again, but that person is definitely not the same person I was two years ago. There’s pieces and parts that ring true, but I feel new parts of myself starting to establish themselves and become core fixtures of who I am. I have a deep appreciation for my quiet strength. I feel more connected to my creative work and ability to share that with others. I treasure relationships with my friends, family, and coworkers deeper that ever before. I believe in rebuilding, reconciliation, and redemption more than ever before. I feel a renewed sense of vitality for life, my work, and my future.

That is quite different than the small soul that sat in a doctor’s office in January of 2017, accepting a prescription and an unwanted future, scared of what was to come and convinced that healing was too far away to grasp.

To contrast, my appointment with my doctor a few weeks ago felt the farthest from that. “You don’t show the signs of someone who needs to be on this medication anymore. Cut your pills in half for two weeks, then transition to taking them every other day for another two weeks. You should be good after that.” I didn’t have a laundry list of questions, I didn’t break down into tears sitting in the pale little room, I simply gathered the materials he printed out for me and left, getting on with the rest of my day. I felt okay.

Maybe it’s because it’s been a whole year since I went on medical leave for my mental illness, that I find myself comparing where I am now to where I was then, more often than I’m used to. The Leah of last year was so unstable, in so many different ways. Now, I feel more like myself than I ever have, more stable and happy with my life, and finally at peace with all that this last year has held. It’s what empowered me to begin sharing my story more openly, using my voice and words to remind others that things do get better, even if you believe they absolutely never will.

Every time I hear Logic's single "1-800-273-8255," I feel my heart twist in my chest, the way it does when words hit too close to home. I don’t believe I was seriously considering suicide at any point of this past year, but I will be honest and vulnerable and say there were times when I found myself thinking about it rationally. I would wake up to my alarm, and try to find any reason to get out of bed and do the day before me. It felt like such a heavy task before me, that my mind would often retreat to finding a way to end it. I would find myself mentally creating “pros” and “cons” to continue living – thankfully always ending up getting out of bed.

Becoming suicidal was one of my biggest fears about being so depressed. It was a deep, deep, fear of mine, that those rational thoughts would become so common that I would end up doing something I would regret. Even going on medication fueled that fear, as I felt uncomfortable with the idea of having a bottle of pills in my apartment. My therapist would often tell me that fearing suicide was actually a good thing, as it meant that I didn’t want it to happen. I remember her trying to ease my fears, “If you were really suicidal, you would be thinking about it constantly. You would be creating plans, collecting materials, saying goodbyes. I can see that you don’t want to do that. You don’t want it.”

And she was absolutely right. But that same conversation led her to tell me I needed to get more help, whether that was through taking a medical leave, or beginning a long process of treatment with medication.

If I've learned anything through the past year, is that there is quiet strength in reaching out for help when you need it. Allowing her to call a Doctor in town and set up an appointment for me showed strength. Stepping away from work and going home, to my supportive family and familiar comforts took strength. Continuing my journey with medication and trusting the process took strength. Quitting my job, moving home, and making decisions for myself and my needs showed strength. I learned to forgive, and choose to believe in reconciliation and redemption, rather than revenge.

In graduate school, we learned about the concept of a “shipwreck,” that often prompts college students to rethink their values, beliefs, and personal vision. It often comes in the form of something traumatic, enough to blow through the sails on your boat, building rough waves that toss and turn you until you can’t take it anymore and jump overboard. You swim to shore, and as you recover from this shipwreck, you begin to reevaluate your life and where you are headed.

And that’s where I’ve been and continue to be. The shipwreck I’ve experienced has taught me so much, and I think it took a year of going through the process, trusting it each day, and returning to this new version of myself to realize there is still so much more to come. I feel a cautious optimism, that good things are on the way.

It’s the same way watching the sunset outside of my office window makes me feel, or the way snuggling my mom’s dog and hearing my dad laugh from the other room spurs overwhelming feelings of gratitude. It’s running miles down country roads at home, occasionally hearing a car honk it’s approval. It’s laughing with my coworkers, amazed at how this opportunity dropped into my lap as soon as I gave up control and let life lead me where it may.

It’s understanding life ebbs and flows, and as long as I allow myself to float along the waves, I won’t need to fight them. I won’t need to swim back to shore, fighting against what I think “should” happen, only to end up laying the sand, exhausted by own effort to control things out of my control.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds freshness in the month of January, cleanliness of a new year, and the empty space after the holidays oddly satisfying.

After the holiday hustle and bustle, not to mention the rush from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Eve…the calm that January brings was a sigh of relief in my hurried soul. I watched the clock tick down to midnight from the comfort of my bedroom, wrapped up in layers of blankets, my cat quietly snoozing at the foot of my bed. There were no jubilant yells when midnight struck, no confetti drop, and no champagne toasts. Instead I quietly said a prayer of gratitude, closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths as the pops of fireworks from my neighbors began to strike through the silence.

You made it.

I fell asleep that night with a light soul, feeling as though the weight of the last year was slowly but surely sliding off my shoulders and back. It had been for a while, but there was something about the clock striking midnight, and the year actually coming to a physical end, that cemented a lot of the progress I had made. That thought repeated itself over and over again. You made it.

Making it through 2017 was and continues to be my personal achievement from last year. In the figurative sense, it meant making it through some really rough seasons and unexpected transitions. It meant taking risks and seeing things through even when I wasn’t completely sure what was waiting on the other side. It required a deep, deep, level of trust and self-forgiveness – just a few things I’ve never really been quite good at. But it also meant quite literally, making it through 2017. I’ve been collecting some thoughts on a post expanding on my experience with mental illness (hopefully to come within the next month or so), and spending time reflecting on moments where I questioned whether I was actually going to make it to the end of the year, made me realize that making it to 2018 is a pretty big deal.

The same way some folks who have gone through a traumatic experience come out of it with a renewed vitality for life and everything it brings, I feel the same way about 2018. For them, it might be skydiving or taking an international trip, proposing to a loved one or buying the house of their dreams. I don’t think I’ll be skydiving anytime soon, but I have felt those similar urges to grab life by the horns this year and take advantage of all that is before me. Coming into this new year with a fresh mind, and renewed soul, is wildly different than entering last year filled with anxiety and lost in a cloud of deep depression.

When I was piecing together my goals for 2018, I found myself more excited for life and what is to come than ever before. I feel capable of accomplishing them, and more determined than ever to go after them full force. That’s what was missing in 2017.

I don’t think that was wrong, honestly this past year was necessary time and space to heal and recover. And I’m glad I did just that – I needed that space, that process, that experience. Trying to jump headfirst into reclaiming my life and everything I felt like I missed out on would have been fruitless had I not used the space before me to heal and recover.

I’m glad I took time off after I quit my job to write, explore, create, and realign my values.

I’m glad I let go of people, places, and things that felt hurtful or negative.

I’m glad I let my home team and family embrace me, I’m glad I was able to come home.

I’m glad I took risks and a career shift.

I’m glad I allowed myself to be open to new experiences and communities.

I’m glad I allowed myself the space to heal.

If 2017 was a year of recovery and healing, 2018 is a year of reclaiming my territory. I wrote that phrase on a sticky note a few months, stuck it above my dresser where other thoughts, ideas, and dreams have materialized themselves onto brightly colored squares. For some reason, it had made an impact in my mind, this idea of reclaiming the places, spaces, and communities that I felt like I lost over the last year. I started exploring the process on a few different occasions, visiting Southern California and seeing my old coworkers and friends I hadn’t spoken much to since everything happened. Walking around campus in Monterey and not feeling that ache in the pit of my stomach. Letting people who last saw me very, very, sick, see me well into recovery, happy, and energized about life.

Reclaiming my territory in 2018 means fearlessly going back into those places and spaces that I’m still a little fearful of. Fearful that they may bring familiar feelings to the surface, tainting this process of recovery and healing I’ve been steadily moving through. But subconsciously built into that process is coming to terms with the hurt and pain those places and spaces may carry, allowing yourself to find the gap, no matter how small, that you can wriggle through. To get past the hurt and pain, and rediscover what you loved so deeply still there on the other side.

The warm embrace of Southern California.

The bright lights of the Santa Monica Pier at dusk.

The smell of a Philz Coffee, awaiting your pour-over to be carefully crafted.

The familiarity of the metal picnic tables outside the Residence Life Office.

The sweet smoothness of a vanilla latte and sunlight streaming through the stained glass at Mantra Coffee.

The silent hum of the LA Metro, unfamiliar faces filling the seats around you.

The freeway exits between Pasadena and Claremont.

The smell of truffle fries at King’s Gastropub.

The bleak, but beautifully simple, landscape of the 152 leading into Los Banos.

The fog cutting through Pacheco Pass after a rainstorm.

The deep blues, and bright greens of CSUMB’s campus.

The raindrops on my Patagonia jacket, fresh from an unexpected Monterey storm.

The sounds of Alabama Shakes, The Head and the Heart, and so many other artists that paint the seasons of my life.

I’m looking forward to continuing to reclaim my territory this year. I have plans for trips, ideas for new explorations, and a soul ready and willing to take a leap of faith towards something great.

Completing a distance race had been a long-time goal of mine for quite some time, but never seemed quite within reach. It was in the back of my head, not significant enough to be warranted a priority, and yet still refusing to be forgotten. When I moved to Monterey, in the summer of 2016, I told myself 2017 would be the year I would run a half marathon, and complete my goal.

Throughout that summer and early fall, I started training, on a treadmill at the student gym on campus. It felt good, to be running again. It felt right, to be back in my athletic gear and sipping gatorade after my workouts. It felt like I was home.

Shortly after that, my workouts began to diminish as I started getting sick. It became less of a priority, less of an important part of my life, and the dream of finishing a half marathon in 2017 seemed like an impossible goal once I went on medical leave in January of this year. I let myself forget about it, quite easy if I say so myself, as being at rock bottom gave me enough to think about.

On a warm summer day in June of this year, I decided to go for a run. I mumbled something about needing to get my mind off of things as I walked out of my parents' house – my dad seemingly aware that more was going on. When I stepped outside and starting trotting along, the emotional weight I had been carrying, full of regrets, questions, disappointment, and everything that comes post-breakup,felt heavier than ever before. I tried to turn up my music and block it out, as I slowly ran along my neighborhood streets, wanting so desperately to think about anything else than my broken heart.

And pretty soon, my body, which hadn't had a real workout in six to nine months, began begging for a break. My legs ached, my chest felt on fire, and my forehead dripped sweat. I had barely made it down a few blocks before I needed to stop, catch my break, and stretch my aching calves. I made myself keep going, if only because the pain gave me a focus point. Something I'd been searching for since an email landed in my inbox at the end of April, and made my world break apart. I finally had something else to think about, if only for the short time I was out on my run. And it was addicting.

I ordered a new pair of running shoes that night when I got home.

The next week, I signed up for the Two Cities Half Marathon in November.

The thought of finishing a half marathon in January, when I was so sick, felt impossible. But here, in late June, I felt a spark of hope. I felt like I had a goal I could accomplish. And I was determined to make it happen.

Thanksgiving was yesterday, and as I reflected on so much I have to be thankful for this year, one thing stuck out beyond the rest – my decision to start running again. It was simple, coming out of a desperate need for a distraction from heartbreak and pain, but it turned into something so much more significant.

It has become, in the worlds of the minimalists, something that adds immense value to my life. And so, I chose to dedicate my time and resources towards that. I spend an average of 10-12 hours in the gym per week. I could be doing something else with my time, but I don't want to. I want to spend my time on a treadmill, sweating until my shirt is soaked and running until my legs are shaking. I chose to spend my resources on training supplies and race entry fees. I want to feel the runner's high when I finish a race or feel the weight of a medal around my neck. I want to sink deep into a community of like-minded people, in person or online, who share similar stories of how running has changed their lives: breakups, sickness, injury, or otherwise...we share a similar antidote. Something that eased the pain, and suddenly became an addictive source of energy and reassurance, that even if everything else hurt, we could still go out and do something positive for ourselves. That we could still reach the finish line.

I didn't know what to expect during my first race. I assumed I would be tired, I would hit the dreaded "wall" runners speak of during a race. I just wanted to finish, to prove to myself that even though 2017 was the biggest shit show I've ever experienced, I had it within me to finish something I've wanted to do for so long, despite everything the world had thrown at me this year. I remember nerves as I crossed the starting line with hundreds of other runners. I kept telling myself to "run my own race," trying to block out the runners passing me as I took my first regulated walk break. That would follow me as we spread out from the initial starting pack, and I settled into my pace.

I thought the race would feel harder than it did. And of course, of points it felt agonizing. No one prepared me for the sloped hills up Friant, giving my shins a workout as I pressed through the middle miles. But for the majority of the race, I felt joyful. I was finally doing something I've wanted to do for so long. And I focused on that, through each mile, past each spectator, with each step. I'm doing it. I couldn't help the positive energy deep within myself. I had worked for this, from that lone summer day, up until now.

Crossing the finish line was one of the best experiences I've ever had. I remember hearing my name announced, a medal placed around my neck, and the man who had been running in front of my for most of the race turn around to give me a high-five. My parents and a few friends met me shortly after. I couldn't help smiling. I was the happiest I'd been, in a very long time.

I took a few days off after the race, and then I started running again.

I didn't expect running to become such a significant part of my life after finishing my race, but it has. I like to think it's partially filled the void that this season created in my life, giving me something to invest in. I've learned that if something is important and adds value to your life, you will make the time for it, and allocate your resources to it. Not because you feel pressured to, but because it is important to you. It doesn't matter how busy I am, or whether I could be spending my time doing something else, I make time for the gym and a run, because I value it and want to invest in it. It is a high priority in my life now, because I believe it helped me turn my life around.

And so this year, I am thankful I decided to start running again, and all the incredible things that have come with that decision. For the 13.1 miles I ran a few weeks ago, my heart full each and every step of the way. For the friends I've made on the road and in the gym, for my parents and their never-ending support. I'm thankful for how free I feel when I am running, for sweaty mornings and late nights at the gym. I'm thankful that it has caused me to deeply appreciate my physical and mental health, not to mention immensely benefited it as well.

And the best part?

There is still more to come.

I plan on running more miles and more races this next year.

And I'm looking forward to reaching the finish line for each and every one.

The farthest north I think I've traveled was with my high school chamber choir, up to Vancouver when I was 16. I remember walking around downtown, sun barely beginning to set at 9pm, amazed by the difference just traveling up the continent had. It was a warm summer evening, folks out and about enjoying the relaxed environment. The promise of unfamiliar sights and sounds was stirring in my soul. I remember feeling excited about what each day held on our trip.

Alaska was no different.

From the moment I stepped onto our first flight out from Fresno, to the last evening watching the sun set over Mount Susitna across Cook Inlet, the entire trip was filled with unfamiliar places, faces, and a sense of adventure and exploration I hadn't allowed into my life for many, many months.

My primary reason for being in Alaska was for work. I traveled with one of my colleagues to visit our partners at Cook Inlet Tribal Council, where we facilitated three days of training with some of their employees. As draining as that can be, it was fulfilling to talk with partners, hear their experiences, and join with them in their efforts to better serve and work with their participants. I felt like I was learning something new everyday, instead of blindly walking through my typical day to day routine.

The work we did with Cook Inlet Tribal Council was refreshing. Being able to work face-to-face with people, rather than behind a computer editing video footage was a change of pace I didn’t know I needed. I heard stories, I shared them, we worked together and found common ground. We planned together ways to continue supporting their participants, employees, and our shared partnerships. I found myself feeling grateful for my continued work with IMAGO each day.

Every morning began at a local coffee shop, Steamdot, where Michelle and I sipped artisan coffee drinks as the sun slowly began to rise over the eastern mountains. When work was done, we usually found ourselves at a cozy diner, called Spenard Roadhouse, where we ate the best chili I have ever had, and tasted more local delicacies around town. Even though it was a crisp mid-40 degrees, that didn’t stop us from sampling a local ice cream shop recommended by many of the folks at CITC.

Our last two days were spent exploring outside of Anchorage, the city center where we had been located for most of the week. Even just driving around the city had me staring out of our rental car window, watching golden leaved trees pass by, raindrops slowly sliding down road signs and parked cars. Every so often we would come around a turn to a glorious view of the mountain ranges, so close within our sight they became a common backdrop to our photographs. But as we drove out of the city limits, the beauty would continue intensifying, filling our perspective with new sights to take in.

The two hour drive out to Palmer led us by a river for most of the trip, which ended at Matanuska Glacier, where the melting ice flowed directly into the river we had followed all the way up here. A huge chunk of ice sitting at the base of a mountain may not seem too exciting in words, but it was truly something to behold. After adjusting to the large dip in temperature, we stuffed heating pads into our gloves and took off with our guide for a three hour trek around the glacier. We slipped metal spikes onto our boots and stomped around on that glacier, up and down, in and around, this slowly moving sheet of ice that had been there longer than anyone could fathom.

We saw the brightest blues, encased in lines of ice that never seemed to end. The steep terrain of the glacier had spots where it looked like none had traveled before, coved in small divots looking oddly like fresh snow. It felt like we were explorers, on an untouched planet, as we slowly hiked in and around one of the most beautiful natural sights I have ever seen. I often found myself turning back towards the mountain ranges, and just letting the beauty of this place wash over me.

The next day, we drove around Anchorage while it slowly drizzled looking for wildlife, and ended up in Eagle River just as the rain let up. A short hike took us to a stunning outlook over a small river surrounded by more trees and mountains. I had been carrying around my camera taking footage throughout the trip, but for a short time I set it to timelapse mode, and left it on a handrail while I stepped away to take in the view, hands free. I’ve always been a fan of nature, but the silence and solitude that these places provided was unlike anything I had experienced lately.

Maybe it’s because I’m back home, where the familiarity of things prevents me from seeking out the spaces and places that remind me of the true beauty of this world. Or that I’m not really feeling in touch with my faith, which used to connect so deeply to the creative God I know and love. It might have something to do with the way I’ve fallen into a routine, which I love and enjoy, but doesn’t provide me the crisp morning air and misty mountains this trip did.

Regardless, everything about Alaska felt like a breath of fresh air that I’ve needed, slowly filling my stale lungs and reminding me of the beauty that exists in this world – through mountains of ice, through people and their storied histories, though communities and pockets of people who share their souls with you. This world has a tendency to feel depressing and worthless when I watch the evening news, but it feels vibrant and hopeful in the midst of mountains that tower over you, and people who embrace you even though you’ve known them for less than a day.

As we trekked back from Eagle River, I found myself repeating an old hymn in my head, coming to mind at a perfect time and place.

This is my Father’s world, And to my listening ears

All nature sings, and round me rings

The music of the spheres.

This is my Father’s world,

I rest me in the thought.

Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas –

His hand the wonders wrought.

I am thankful for this trip to Alaska, coming at a time when I needed a reminder of the beauty that exists in this strange and wonderful thing we call life. A reminder of the Father that exists beyond time and space and staleness and worry. A Father who remains steadfast when we consistently move towards instability and fear. This is His world. And I take rest in that fact, when my lungs feel the staleness settle in, when the beauty seems too familiar, when I long to feel the crisp air fill my nose again.

To more adventures, to more moments of peace and realization, to more moments of finding yourself in the Father’s world.

If you know anything about me, you know that I function well with a set routine. I enjoy watching the “newness” of a season slowly give way to a sense of normalcy, solid expectations of what each day may bring, what the workload looks like, what my weeks may be filled with. Routine is like a blanket on top of a comforter, when you are settling into bed, it provides an extra layer of warmth, comfort, and weight. It puts me at ease.

There’s something about the month of September that seems to be the yearly mark for normalcy and routine in my life. The past few years, I’ve felt my routines begin to settle down in September. Last year, it was coming to understand my role as a Community Director and adjust to my life in Monterey. Before that, it was adjusting to a new role in Residence Life, and spending more time than normal in a hospital room with someone I deeply loved. And even before that, it was finally feeling at home in a new school, with new classmates, and a new educational program. And here I am, yet again. I'm watching the "newness" melt off my environment the way dew slowly dries on the lawn in the front yard. I’ve once again reached the point where new routines simply becoming routines.

This month has been no different.

My new job, my new location, my new communities, no longer feel “new.” I don’t think twice about my drive into downtown, I don’t seem to be bothered by things lost and things found. I find myself smiling more. I find myself feeling better. I find myself settling into a routine, and rediscovering the comfort that routine has brought me over the years, once again.

As soothing as this September has been, I’ve also had a few surprising moments. I was down south with some coworkers back to an area that used to be my “normal.” Pasadena and LA will always have a significant space in my heart. The people, the memories, the transformative season will never be too far from my mind. I wasn’t anticipating what I felt as I drove down the 99 towards the maze of LA freeways with my new coworkers. I was nervous, to be back in a place that held memories and people that knew me before the person I am now. I was afraid of what the buildings, the mountains, the space would stir in my soul. I remember taking deep breaths in our car, as we drew closer and closer to the place that used to be my normal.

It didn’t quite feel like coming home. I didn’t feel the warm embrace of a place I wanted to come back to and stay at. But it didn’t feel like a cold front, making you bundle up your jacket a little tighter and hold your arms closer to your chest. It felt like a clear, crisp, summer day, breaking the clouds after a season of winter.

I felt confident, walking the streets of Azusa I used to call home. I saw people who cared deeply about me, I visited places that used to refuel my soul (and still somewhat did). I shared about my life with old friends – the terribly bad, and the unexpected good. I didn’t feel my voice break or my soul drop when I shared news that used to make my knees buckle. I spoke honestly, authentically, and felt myself reclaiming a narrative I had tried to write off. It was empowering.

My new normal is anything but what I had expected. But then again, life typically has a way of making you eat your words. Words like “I’m never moving back to the Valley,” are suddenly dumped upon a plate you’re expected to finish before leaving the table. To some, it’s a disgusting process. But to me, it’s been humbling. It’s been eye-opening. It’s been part of the reason why returning to LA and seeing old friends didn’t feel as shocking as I thought it would be. Because I’ve found my new normal. I’ve settled into my routines. I’ve found a peace I’ve been looking for, for so long.

I know “normal” tends to be something that only sticks around for a season, that is a subjective experience derailed by life’s unexpected twists and turns. Trust me, I know that far well. I had expected my "normal" life in this season to be something completely different than what I'm currently doing. My life is anything but what I had imagined or set out for myself - one, two, even three years ago. But this new normal, even though it’s piled high on my plate, is something I've quietly come to accept and participate in. It’s something that didn’t seem appealing at first, but has come to be one of my favorite meals. I’m going to soak in this normal as much as I can, as long as I can, adding to it’s unique shape and size with each new experience along the way.

My new normal is a little bit like me.

It sticks out in a crowd, it has a story unlike anything anyone’s ever heard. It chooses to stand up tall with confidence, moving into a crowded room and breathing deeply. It isn’t perfect, but it’s a hard worker willing to put in the time and effort to see the results it desires. It keeps things fresh, while still maintaining it’s typical routine.